


here with me

by wildcard_47



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Aziraphale Makes Him Feel Better, Bookshop Sex, Hot Sex Or Tender Sex? Both? Both. Both Is Good., Light Angst, Love On Top/Angel On Top, M/M, crowley has a lot of feelings, handjobs, ineffable husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 11:17:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19228078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: Luckily, Aziraphale's discorporation was only temporary. Crowley needs reminding of that fact.





	here with me

**Author's Note:**

> For **Priestly** , who bribed me with the promise of art! <3 
> 
> Title taken from an ancient Dido song.

Aziraphale stepped back from the last of the lower bookshelves with a contented sigh, brandishing his mahogany-handled feather duster in one hand like some idiot footballer signing headshots outside the arena with his girlfriend’s novelty pen. 

“Well? How does it look, my dear Crowley?”

Crowley glanced around at the shop. Considering Adam had recreated it within the last forty-eight hours, it looked good, even for someone who hadn’t really known the place. Wasn’t nearly enough dust yet, not that Aziraphale would agree. And there weren’t as many books as before, or at least they weren’t arranged the same. But there wasn’t a way he could say this without crushing the angel’s feelings, and so he just shrugged. 

“Seems all right to me, angel.”

Beaming, Aziraphale leaned down and tapped at some last infinitesimal atom with the duster in his hand, causing Crowley to groan low in his throat. For fuck’s sake. That sort of gesture should have been ridiculous. Overblown. Silly. 

Instead, it made the angel look unspeakably sexy. 

This was unspeakable because no human or immortal on earth would ever believe Crowley if he uttered those words in that order. Most idiots would take a look at Aziraphale’s blond curls and his camel coat and fussy waistcoat and his even stupider patterned-bow tie and think, phwoar, what a short glass of warm milk.

They, Crowley decided, with the echoes of a still-smoldering fire from days before flashing in his eyes, would be wrong.

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale murmured now, flicking what appeared to be a single red particle from one of the volumes. “I think this one’s got a bit of dried jam on it.”

His tongue darted out to wet his lips after he said it, as if he were going to taste the air and confirm or deny this jam theory. The sight drove Crowley mad.

“Angel,” he growled: a question. “I want to have you.”

Turning, lowering the feather duster, Aziraphale gave him a cheerful, puzzled look. “What do you mean,  _ have _ — _? _ ”

Crowley sprang, pinning the angel to the nearest strip of bare wall between shelves in a small corner; Aziraphale shuddered as his back touched wood.

“Ah-ha-ha, I see. You meant—like this.”

“I meant  _ like this, _ ” Crowley confirmed, sliding one hand into Aziraphale’s trousers, and feeling victorious when his angel’s eyes fluttered shut with pleasure. He leaned forward, pressed a kiss to the tender space behind Aziraphale’s ear. “Now.”

“Oh, my dear. You’re certain you could n—oh— _ darling _ , that feels very nice.”

Crowley mouthed his way down soft pale skin, kissing and sucking at the crook of the angel’s neck until he was sure he’d left angry red marks. “‘M not  _ nice _ , angel.”

“But it still f— _ mm!  _ Crowley—”

Crowley had bitten him this time, fairly gently, all things considered. Given the way Aziraphale shivered, and pressed one thigh between Crowley’s legs before pulling him closer, it was more than all right.

“Want you every minute,” Crowley murmured, as he miracled away zippers and buttons and anything else keeping him from touching bare skin. He groaned as he took Aziraphale in hand, the slick sounds of his hand on the angel’s cock only enhanced by Aziraphale’s soft, breathy gasps echoing in his ear. “That’s it, angel.”

“Yes, darling,” whispered Aziraphale. “Oh, yes, just like—”

“Stay with me.” Crowley buried his nose in Aziraphale’s wild curls, letting his free hand roam a path along the angel’s chest as he increased the pace. “Let me feel you, angel—”

_ Mine, mine, mine, my angel, my best friend _

Glass popping from the heat of the blazing inferno, piles and piles of first editions oozing thick black smoke as Crowley tore through the burning shop, dizzy and frantic, the smell of singed paper and sulfur and old mahogany stinging his nose and eyes.

_ Aziraphale! Aziraphale! _

All those stupid beautiful books smoldering to pieces and Aziraphale nowhere in sight, where in Satan’s name  _ was _ he, why wasn’t he answering, why wasn’t he  _ listening— _

A hand caressed through the side of his hair, careful and soft. “Crowley?”

Distantly, Crowley realized he was shaking, unmoving, his face buried in Aziraphale’s shoulder and his arms wrapped tightly around the angel’s middle. They were no longer standing; they had slumped down against the wall, sitting in a tangle of arms and legs. “Angel, I-I—”

“Oh, my dear boy.” Aziraphale carded one elegant hand through the fine hair at the back of Crowley’s neck. A slight breeze passed over him as feathery white wings enfolded both immortals, pulling Crowley even closer. “Tell me.”

“I thought,” Crowley choked out first, unable to finish the sentence. “You weren’t here and the whole damn place was burning and your desk was—I thought—angel, I  _ thought _ —”

Aziraphale’s wings pulled him closer. 

“And I couldn’t stand it.” Eyes screwed shut, Crowley concentrated on the sensation of being held, tethered, secured, until the knot in his throat loosened, and speaking came easier. “Thinking you weren’t  _ here. _ ”

_ Hurt them all, make them pay, make them  _ feel  _ what it was like to lose someone you _ —

“Dearest one,” whispered Aziraphale, and pressed his lips to Crowley’s forehead. Instantly, Crowley felt a wave of calm wash over him. Like gulping down a swallow of ice water on a hot summer day. “I am so very sorry.”

“ _ No. _ ‘S not your fault.”

“But you were frightened.” Aziraphale tilted Crowley’s chin up so that their eyes met, humming out a reassuring noise. “And I was gone.”

Crowley sighed, hoping he could glance away, hoping the angel would let him slink off and forget this ever happened. Getting all stupid and emotional over a lack of dust. But he let Aziraphale hold his gaze for several seconds before clearing his throat. “Yeah.”

“Lucky for us both, it was only a temporary discorporation,” Aziraphale pointed out, kissing Crowley’s forehead again before his eyes crinkled in a beatific smile, and his usual grin turned mischievous. “But I believe you needed something specific from me, earlier?”

“Oh.” Fuck, he’d nearly forgotten. “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Hush, dear boy.” 

Tenderly, Aziraphale ran both hands down Crowley’s sides, and then across his shoulders, prompting a prickle of excitement and then a full-bodied shiver. He touched Crowley’s back and trunk this way for several minutes, just easing the tension from Crowley’s muscles; when he felt how relaxed Crowley had gone, he let his hands wander, and cupped Crowley’s cock through his tight dark jeans.

“Angel!”

“There, now. Would you still like to have me?” Aziraphale’s voice was low and reverent, even as he stroked Crowley to full hardness.

“Yeah,” gasped Crowley. “In—inside me.”

Aziraphale smiled at him, that same goofy  _ nothing-would-please-me-more  _ smile, only it was tinged with a heat that made Crowley’s stomach flip in anticipation. “Yes, dear.”

In an instant, their clothes had vanished. Aziraphale pulled Crowley into his lap, traced down the seam of his balls with a slick, teasing finger, then let his fingers trail backwards, circling and pressing into Crowley until the demon was writhing against his hips, ready to be filled.

“Angel. Angel, please, I—”

Aziraphale’s cock twitched at the words, but his voice did not waver as he murmured, “All right, dear one. All right.”

Smoothly, he guided the tip of his cock to Crowley’s entrance and pushed in, burying himself inside and groaning in delight once he bottomed out.

“Nnnh.” Crowley was shaking again, in pleasure this time. “ _ Fuck  _ me.”

And his angel did: started with sweet, slow rolls of his hips that made Crowley swear and grip at Aziraphale’s shoulders, then increased the pace until Crowley matched this desperate speed, pressing their foreheads together as their hips canted faster and faster.

“Angel, angel, oh,  _ fuck,  _ angel, I’m gonna—”

“Come on, darling. That’s it. So lovely, dear Crawley—”

“ _ Mine. _ ”

Crowley came with a yelp, his wings bursting from his back and his entire body tensing around Aziraphale’s; seconds later, his angel followed him downwards, groaning and shivering as Crowley collapsed forward into his arms.

After several minutes spent catching their breath, the angel miracled the mess away, and they resettled in a more comfortable position.

“Think I rather like this particular corner,” Aziraphale sighed. “May even be a new corner, to be honest. The window feels bigger.”

Sated and relaxed, Crowley raised his head, taking in the familiar shop around him with bleary eyes. There were stacks of second editions surrounding their heads. From this angle, you could hardly see the furniture for the rows of spines. “Yeah, well. Let’s not go sharing it with any of your customers, eh?”

“Oh, goodness, no,” his angel assured him, and sighed again, fluffing his wings so they functioned more like a pillow than anything else. “Perhaps it would be a good place for a very large snake to live, most days. You could lie in the sun on the windowsill. Enjoy a bit of shade over here. Frighten away anyone with ticky-sticky fingers.”

“Could get used to that,” hummed Crowley through a yawn, as they lay backwards, and he folded his wings over both of them. His angel had already miracled them up a soft, roomy bed that sat low to the ground and fit perfectly in the tiny corner. “Lock up, will you? Wanna sleep.”

And so, for the first time in its nearly two days of re-existence, Mister A.Z. Fell’s shop put up a closed sign in the window of its front door.


End file.
